


The Life You Choose

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Boris meets the Rostovs for the first time in several years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life You Choose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MousselineSerieuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MousselineSerieuse/gifts).



Coming back from the war was strange. 

Boris had served out most of the campaign as an adjutant to a member of staff and saw very little action. He was grateful for it, as the one time they had been caught unaware and withstood fire, Boris earned himself a bullet to the shoulder. The wound was not particularly dangerous, but it had worried his mother and wife and hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. 

In the waning months of 1812, all the way into early 1813, Boris had felt an awkward displacement, an uncomfortable lost feeling, which he had not experienced for many years. Ever since he had learned the unwritten code of military service and his career had taken off, he had always known the correct way to conduct himself in almost all situations. His natural, intuitive pragmatism had served him well and he was able to account for all possible outcomes and place himself into an advantageous position. Perhaps the only time he had been led astray was in the month or so when he had fallen victim to the charms of Natasha Rostov, his childhood sweetheart, even though he knew he ought not marry her. But during the war everything suddenly became confused. Field officers lorded themselves over staffers and were deferred to for their immediate knowledge of what was happening in the field. The official order of ranks was generally respected and far too often trumped the unofficial rules, which Boris had committed himself to fully. The constant chaos, fear and nearby presence of massive amounts of suffering made the world far too malleable for Boris to feel like he was ever standing on solid ground. 

So coming back from the war, Boris felt much like a sailor coming back from an extended sea voyage. He had learned, over time, to find his footing and balance in the unsteady tumult of wartime society and the sudden, previously comforting, strictures of peacetime made him waver in almost every situation. The sudden simplicity made him suspicious and doubtful. 

Luckily, his career was so brilliant by this point, that no minor faux pas could do it much damage. 

About a year after the full return to civilian life in 1814, Boris received a letter from Alphonse Berg – an invitation his daughter’s name day. Boris was glad of the invitation – he had not seen Berg in many months and the two of them had grown close over the years. They usually served in the same regiment and saw much of each other. During the war it was somewhat different, seeing as Berg never quite managed to make it onto the staff, though he rose brilliantly through the ranks. After the war, Vera’s health demanded that Berg take her abroad for treatment, a venture that lasted almost an entire year. Boris freely admitted that he missed their easy conversations. The only thing that worried Boris was that the Rostovs would likely be there. There was no escaping it, of course, as they were Berg’s in-laws. 

Boris thought of Vera and smiled vaguely. He appreciated her in the same way he appreciated most sensible people. She had never attracted him the same way her sister, Natasha, had, but that was an infatuation from so long ago and it seemed so foolish now that Boris was almost embarrassed to recall it. 

Out of all the Rostovs, Boris felt most awkward at the prospect of meeting Natasha and Nikolai. Natasha, because he had once loved her and their affair had ended in a strange, unresolved sort of state. Nikolai, because the way their friendships had tottered off into nothingness without explanation of any defining moment also made Boris feel uncertain. As a general rule, Boris despised uncertainty. He used to be better at handling it – back when he lived at the Rostovs, before he knew that the world was a set of rules and conventions, a hidden, steep staircase that could be climbed. Back then, he was far more foolish and threw himself quite genuinely into his childhood flirtation with Natasha and friendship with Nikolai. 

They had never been equals, of that Boris had always been aware. If he had been anyone’s equal in that house it was Sonya, the dowerless, fortuneless cousin, as in love with Nikolai as Boris had been with Natasha. He wondered vaguely what had happened to her. Nikolai had not married her, that Boris knew, and could never decide if he judged his former friend for his faithlessness or understood him. Boris made a habit to disapprove of dishonorable actions, but he knew need in an intimate way others did not and found himself unable to harshly judge those who did anything they could to relieve themselves of those strictures. 

But there was nothing to be done about the past, really, so Boris put on his newest uniform, collected his wife, kissed his toddler son goodbye and left for the Bergs promptly at half-past seven. 

*

Boris and Julie were greeted at the door by a smiling Berg, who kissed Julie three times and embraced Boris with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Animated voiced could be heard floating in from the drawing room. “I’m very happy to see you!” Berg said, gesturing for a lackey to take their coats. “I’ve missed you a great deal; it truly is wonderful to be back in Petersburg.”

“Speaking of which, how is your wife,” Julie put in before Boris could open his mouth. 

“Much better, the sun did her well I think. Thank you.”

“I hope we’re not too late. Everyone seems to already be here.” Boris was trying to distinguish various voices, attempting to ascertain who was in attendance. Count Bezukhov’s booming baritone was clearly distinguishable. 

“Oh it’s nothing, you’re just in time. Did you not bring Eugene? It’s a shame, a lot of the children are here.” Berg made an inviting gesture and led the way to the drawing room. 

“We thought it best he stay home. Children? Are the Rostovs staying with you?”

“Oh no, they’re stay with Count Bezukhov,” Berg laughed. “But they thought it would be good for the children to play with their cousins. And Prince Hippolyte’s son and mine are regular playmates, so you see…”

“Hippolyte Kuragin is here? You’ve risen in the world, _mon cher_.”

Berg laughed at Boris’ teasing and waved him and Julie through the drawing room door.

Boris glanced around the room, quickly ascertaining the company gathered. There were a couple of Berg’s German friends, Prince Kuragin and his wife, Vera – naturally – Nikolai and his wife, Natasha and Count Bezukhov, and Sonya and the old Countess Rostov. They all stopped their conversations and looked over at the new arrivals. 

The changes in this family struck Boris instantly. Natasha had become much plumper than he remembered. There was now something fleshy and bloated in her face and her entire body. It was an unpleasant change, though the expression on her face was still as open as Boris remembered. Nikolai’s features had hardened and become more brusque. All the poetic gaiety had gone out of his eyes, only to be replaced with a hardened seriousness. It was also strange to see him next to the unattractive woman whom Boris took to be his rich wife, as opposed to the sweet-faced Sonya. 

Sonya, Boris noticed, had not changed much. She looked slightly older and there was more sadness in her eyes, but Boris could almost imagine that she had frozen in time. She was the only one who made him think of the old house the Rostovs had owned in Moscow, with its long halls and echoing music room. Somehow, only when looking at her was he suddenly hit by the acute realization that young Petya was not here and never would be again. 

“Boris. I should have realized you were coming.” Natasha was the first to break the silence. Her words rang out clear as a chiming bell and before Boris knew it, everyone was speaking at once. 

The evening drew on in a fairly regular fashion. After supper, the women formed their own circle, in which the discussion focused primarily on children, and the men formed another, where the discourse was more political. To his own surprise, Boris found that his attention was far more often drawn by Sonya than any of the others present. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she sat by the samovar with the old Countess, not quite apart from the other young women, but not quite with them either. 

“Sonya never married?” Boris asked Nikolai quietly when they had a moment of relative privacy. 

Nikolai looked taken aback and searched his face for something – perhaps a reproach. “No,” he said finally, abruptly, as seemed to be his manner now. 

“I thought a lovely girl like her would have had prospects, dowry aside.”

Nikolai looked pained. He glanced at Sonya, then back at Boris and his mouth folded into a disgruntled line. “She did have one, many years ago, from a certain Dolokhov. She refused him then and I don’t think she has had offers since. If she had, she obviously did not want them.”

Boris smiled in his usual polite and calm manner at Nikolai’s words and wondered how much of Sonya’s unwillingness to settle her own life was due to Nikolai leading her on. And, some time later, when the old Countess told Sonya that she ought to go check on the children, Boris waited a couple of minutes, and then followed her to the nursery. 

The Bergs quaint nursery was overrun by five children, all in a range from several months to about four years in age. Boris recognized Berg’s son and daughter and Alexander Kuragin, who were currently occupied with some wooden blocks. The nurse employed to watch the children was fussing with the dress of a toddler girl with bouncing dark curls and large black eyes. Sonya sat in the rocking chair by the window, cradling a baby in her arms, her expression wistful. 

“Sofia Alexandrovna…” he started, meaning to say something polite and pleasant to his old friend but suddenly becoming uncertain as soon as Sonya raised her eyes to him. She was blinking rapidly and Boris flushed when he realized she was teary-eyed. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes. You must forgive me.” She gave him a soft smile. “I see you have done very well for yourself, Boris. We have not seen much of you lately.” There was no reproach in her voice, but Boris still managed to feel guilty for God only knows what. 

“I am at fault there, but do not think it is because I have little regard for you or your family. My career has kept me terribly busy these last few years.” Sonya nodded but his pleasant words did not seem to have much of an effect on her. Boris picked his way through the toys strewn across the nursery floor to her. “Is this Nikolai’s child?” He indicated the child in her arms. 

“Yes. Andrei.” 

Boris wanted to ask her what had happened, why she had not pursued a life free of the Rostovs, of her constant obligations to them. She had loved Nikolai, well what of it? Did he not love Natasha once? Did he not love her still in that month he visited her in Petersburg when she was already a young woman and not a little girl? But of course, he could not ask such things. They were simply beyond what Boris felt he could allow himself. “You love him very much,” Boris stated, not clear even in his own mind whether he meant Nikolai or Nikolai’s son. 

Sonya lifted dark, soft eyes to meet his. “Yes.” 

_How foolish, all this,_ Boris thought. He was overcome by both pity and disdain for this girl who was so sensible and strong-willed, but had caved completely to her emotions and had internalized the Rostovs sense of their own superiority. All of this to such an extent that she obviously did not think she could amount to anything other than their poor relative, cursed to be eternally grateful for a good they hardly did her. He wanted to ask her if she was happy, but felt he could not. 

*

In the carriage on the way home, Boris was solemn and silent, paying little attention to Julie’s babbling. “She’s not happy and she brought it on herself just as much as they did,” he blurted out suddenly. 

“Who?” Julie looked genuinely confused. 

“Sonya. The Rostovs’ cousin. I used to not think of her much when we were children, other than to think that she was sweet. But seeing her now, still submitting to a life of inferiority to people who are only as grand as they are because of an accident of birth… It makes me very happy I avoided that fate but also very sad for her somehow.”

Julie gave him no answer, only watched his face with some concern. Boris did not mind as he had little to say on the subject. He would put it out of mind completely soon enough, but for a time, the imagine of Sonya in the Bergs’ nursery with Nikolai’s son by another woman cradled in her arms and a sad, longing look on her face, would stay with him as a solid reminder of what he had to be grateful for.


End file.
